


Happy Birthday, John

by Nicotinebatch (Amave)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Presents, F/M, Headcanon, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Pre Reichenbach, angsty, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amave/pseuds/Nicotinebatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's birthday presents throughout the years. Headcanon about John's birthdays. This is a gift to my Jawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday, John

**Author's Note:**

> Today, gini-baggins, my Jawn, has her birthday, so I decided to give her a present.
> 
> I know John Watson's birthday is actually 7 July, but my Jawn has her birthday on the 1st of May, that's why I chose this date in the fic.
> 
> Enjoy, my dear Watson!

It was half past two in the afternoon when John Watson returned to 221B Baker Street from his early shift at the clinic. The sun shone brightly and he had no plans for the rest of the day. The perfect circumstances to celebrate this special day. Today was his 36th birthday, and the first birthday he had since moving in with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock wouldn't know, would he? John had never said anything that it was his birthday, because why should he? Sherlock had never asked about it. And his 36th birthday was not something he was proud to tell someone. 36 is very different from 16. And to promptly say it to Sherlock, was out of the question too. "Hey, Sherlock, um, you know, tomorrow it's my birthday. My 36th. Um yes. So eh, well... never mind." How dumb.

While he took out his keys from the left breast pocket of his jacket, he was surprised by an uncommonly pleasant sound. The light tunes of violin-playing sounded from the first floor of 221B Baker Street. It was not the violin-scraping kind of tunes, oh no. These were well-measured, melodic tunes John could recognise. Of course he didn't. He was not as much as an expert in classical music as he would like to be. But the tunes didn't please him less because of his lack of knowledge. On the contrary, he was more eager to get in to hear the music in its full glory without bothering with its name.

The music didn't flinch or falter a second after John shut the door behind him. He trotted lightly up the stairs, trying to make as little sound as possible. He didn’t want to interrupt Sherlock. He hesitated in the doorpost.

Sherlock's body broke the rays of sunshine that shone through the window, forming a silhouette, accentuating his tall and slim figure and his violin and bow. Fingers danced over the strings in a way that John thought impossible. He was facing the window, so he didn’t see John standing in the doorpost.

Suddenly, John realised what song Sherlock was playing. It was the up-tempo Drinking Song from the opera Carmen. Naturally, John didn't know its name, but he did recognise the melody, which was something and he told himself he could be proud of.

Sherlock knew John was in the room, but he apparently didn't make a move to congratulate John on his birthday. No, he kept on playing three whole operas, for as much John knew. And that was fine, John didn’t expect him to overwhelm him with kisses and congratulations. Just a little acknowledgement of his presence would be nice, but not such a reaction came from Sherlock.

In a natural habit, John hung his jacket on the peg before walking to the kitchen to make some tea. He wasn't aware of himself, humming along with the melodies he recognised. He was also not aware that his humming prompted a little smile on Sherlock's normally grumpy face. He was not aware of his surroundings.

Until the music changed.

John recognised this melody. He recognised it bloody well. It was unmistakeably, even over the sound of the kettle. He almost let the cups slip from his grasp of surprise when he turned to walk over to Sherlock. Sherlock had turned around too, so John could see his face. He had closed his eyes dramatically, like a professional violist. But even John could see it was just a show, which made his smile even bigger. 

The song was _Happy Birthday._

Sherlock ended it with a long vibrato endnote. He elegantly swung his bow off the strings, his violin off his shoulder and opened his eyes.

"Happy birthday, John." Sherlock nodded to John with a grin.

"Thank you." John returned an ever so pleased smile. Then he frowned and opened his mouth to ask how Sherlock knew when-

"Oh don't be obvious. Contracts, forms, passport, your doctor´s ID etcetera. They all said today, the 1st of May, is your birthday."

John sighed. He could have known.

"Your 36th in fact." Sherlock added with a bigger smirk.

John nudged an elbow in Sherlock's side. "Oh stop it, you clever, young git."

Sherlock laughed lowly. He swung his violin back on his shoulder and continued playing with a smile. John couldn't wash the smile off his face for the rest of the afternoon. He didn’t want to, anyway.

 

A year passed. A lot happened. Sherlock and John survived murderers, gigantic hounds and dominatrixes with a few scars to prove the tales. But more importantly: boundaries shifted. In such a way, that when he woke up, John was disappointed that the other side of his bed was empty. _Their bed_ rather than _his bed_ now. That much had changed.

It was John's birthday again and this time, he didn't have to get up early to go to work. This time, he had asked to move his shift so he had a day off on his birthday. Sarah had asked him why he hadn't asked the year before. He had answered that he had a reason to stay home for: Sherlock. His Sherlock.

But now his Sherlock was gone and that made John very grumpy in the not so very early morning. The thought of getting up to fetch him made him groan of frustration in his pillow.

"Shhhh why are you frustrated?" 

John felt a cold hand stroking soothingly over his backbone. Chills ran down his spine. The bed dipped in under Sherlock's weight when he flopped carefully next to John on the sheets. Groaning, John rubbed his eyes and put the effort in turning himself around under the sheets. When he opened his eyes, he looked up at a beaming Sherlock.

"Happy Birthday, John." 

"Good morning, Lock." John returned fondly.

There was a moment of smiling and kissing the good morning. Sherlock crouched on John's lap and chest, his naked body cooling in the room. Eventually, John broke the kiss with a frown.

"Whoa, wait. I don't like the look on your face. You clearly look too happy about yourself. What is it you are not telling me?"

Sherlock seemed to contemplate his answer. He flopped next to John again and sighed. Soon, his planning smirk returned.

"I bought you a present."

_Oh God._

"Please tell me it's not something gory you consider as a 'present', just like those pickled human tongues from two weeks ago." John felt his gut twitch and turn in his stomach of the memory.

Sherlock gave him the _you know I have some morals-_ look before saying softly:

"Close your eyes."

I don't like this at all. But John did what he was told. He lay back and closed his eyes. He heard Sherlock turn around, open his bedside drawer, close it and turn again. John frowned. If it fit in Sherlock's bedside table, it couldn't be that bad, could it now? But on the other hand, the pickled tongues fitted in a small jar so-

"Open your eyes."

John did open his eyes, looked down and back at Sherlock.

"Oh no you fucking didn't."

In front of him, there lay a pair of pants. Red pants, perfectly packed in neat ribbons. Though he knew what it was, he opened the ribbon and lay out the pair of red pants on the pillow between Sherlock and himself.

The pants were a smaller size than his usual boxers, that was obvious. Not too small, John was sure. Sherlock would be so clever to pick the right size for John that he couldn't complain they were too tight, but tight enough to show his private bits very eloquently.

John looked questioningly at Sherlock, who nodded that he should put them on. A sigh and an amused roll of the eyes later, he got out of bed and hose the pants up his legs. They were really damn tight, but not too tight to keep his blood running to his legs. Sherlock gestured to make a turn, so John obeyed. Sherlock's expression had changed to the best after his turn. He was biting his lip, his eyes were locked to John's crotch and his pupils were dilated. John chuckled and got back into bed. He lay down on his right, doing the _draw me like one of your French girls_ pose. Sherlock had trouble swallowing. Good.

"So... eh.. thank yo-" Sherlock put his index finger on John's lips to shut him up. He wasn't done yet. Good lord.

"These will be your sex-pants." Sherlock explained with his smug smile. "They will give me reason to fuck you wherever and whenever we are every time they are exposed to my eyes because I cannot restrain myself against that urge."

Aha. 

"Eh, all right. I give my consent. Though I love sex, it's good that I've only one pair." John huffed a laugh. He really loved Sherlock's plan, he really did. But he wasn't looking forward to the soreness that the pants inclined.

"Eh... Well..." Sherlock started innocently. 

Oh God. Without looking in his underwear drawer, John knew what Sherlock had done. Sherlock had replaced all his underwear with these tight, exposing red pants. Jeez.

John started to get mad, but cooled down immediately when he realised that Sherlock was giving him a present. Sherlock Holmes, giving someone a well-meant present, was a rare occurrence, even for John. These pants promised a lot of sex and given the fact that John hadn't had sex over a long period of time when Sherlock and he weren't together, this was one of the best gifts he ever received.

John shook his head lightly and burst into a giggle. Sherlock chuckled with him, unsure whether it was a good or a bad giggle.

"You are the best present I've ever had for my birthday." John beamed with shiny eyes when he was done laughing. Sherlock's pale cheeks flushed cutely red. John gave a peck on both cheeks and one light kiss on Sherlock's lips. Not long after, he felt Sherlock's hand in his neck and in his hair. With his own hands, he felt the warmth of Sherlock's back in the cool room, his waist and chest. Sherlock shifted and soon John felt Sherlock's weight grinding his front. Sherlock retreated in the kiss for a short while to chuckle.

"I think we'll have a lot of fun with these."

 

The rest is history.

So is the tragic end of their short-lived romance. 

 

John didn't know how to cope through his 38th birthday. He had taught himself to separate his feelings from his normal life, but on days like these, Sherlock's absence was plainly painful. He told himself not to cry, to act like a normal, numb day. And he succeeded. Up to a point. Only until he stood before the door of 221B Baker Street to visit Mrs Hudson, he broke.

John had known he would break when he made the appointment with Mrs Hudson. Initially, Mrs Hudson would have visited him, but after her hip had worsened, he had agreed to visit her. At the time, he didn't think what it might do to his emotional health. It turned out that only Mrs Hudson's hug, was the last drop of water the river of his tears needed to flood.

Mrs Hudson lead the heap called John Watson to the sitting room of 221A and gave him a cup of tea. The tea helped, but John became incredibly sentimental as he revived everything he missed about Sherlock. Mrs Hudson patted his hand, his head and said the soothing words when needed. John was grateful she did, though he could not say it that moment.

After the worst was over, they found themselves laughing bitterly over their shared irritations and drying their tears, when the doorbell rang. 

Mrs Hudson rose from her chair, but John gestured her to sit down. Out of habit, he got up to answer the door. On the doorstep, a young ginger postman stood with a packet in his hand.  
"Are you Doctor Watson?" The man's voice was briskly bright.

John cleared his throat to banish the last bricks of sadness. 

"Yeah.”

"Then this packet is for you." The postman handed the cardboard box over. It had the shape of a cube, square on all sides.

"Eh... thank you." John said stunned.

"Have a nice day, sir." The man smiled and stepped off the doorstep of 221B.  
"Yeah you... you too."

For a moment or two, John stood there, paralyzed with the box in his hands. He was curious about what was inside, but he was more curious about who sent it, as no sender was mentioned. Maybe more importantly: who knew John would visit Mrs Hudson today? He had told no one and all his friends and family knew he lived somewhere else now. Quite a mystery worth solving.

"Would you close the door, dear? Please mind the draught!" Mrs Hudson's voice sounded from the sitting room. John closed the door and went back to Mrs Hudson. He carefully put the cube packet on the table. It said 'fragile' on the sides.

"Oh thank you for accepting the packet, John, let me get a pair of scissors."

"Eh, Mrs Hudson, it is actually addressed to me. 'Doctor John H. Watson.'" John read.

"Really? How odd." Mrs Hudson seemed as puzzled as he was. "Who is it from?"

"That's the thing, it mentions no sender."

Mrs Hudson's frown deepened. "Any idea what is inside?"

"No."

"Well, open it, boy!" She handed over the pair of scissors to John. He accepted them and cut the duct tape that secured the box. Under the cardboard flap, only a lot of bubble wrap and old papers were visible. John grabbed a few times in the box, when he finally took hold of something made of glass. He pulled it out.

It was an ashtray.

John gasped. It was not just some ashtray. It was the ashtray Sherlock had nicked from Buckingham palace. What quickened John's heart rate even more was the post-it note in the middle of the glass.

_Happy birthday, John._

John read the note over and over again. This couldn’t be real. Was this some sick joke? It couldn't be his friends, nor enemies. They wouldn’t spend that much time on him to retrieve the ashtray from the bins with furnishing that belonged to 221B. He didn't allow himself to hope it, to believe it, but secretly he had always known.

John bit his lip, took a deep breath and smiled. 

"Thank you." he whispered.

The year after was better than the year before. The ashtray had given John hope, though he was disappointed nothing else happened in the year that had passed. Yet, time heals wounds, even just a little bit. The grief was copable now. He shed the tears when he felt the need, but that happened less often than before, which was good. The evening of his birthday he had even planned to celebrate it in the pub. Stamford and Lestrade would come, so he would have a good time. Just before he went out, his preparations were disturbed by the doorbell ringing.

With a light trod, John hurried to the door. He knew he shouldn't be that hopeful, because there was no way history would repeat itself. Yet, he was.

"Are you Doctor John Watson?" A woman, in her mid-thirties, asked him when he had opened the door.

"Yes, that's me." John answered maybe too fast.

The woman smiled amusedly. She had wavy shoulder-length mahogany brown hair and blue eyes. Her lips were naturally light red and shaped. She was quite a looker.

"This packet is for you." She handed over a rectangular-shaped parcel. It had something from a wine-box, but it was shorter.

John turned the packet upside down, left and right and concluded no sender was mentioned, again, nor was it fragile.

"What's in it? I'm curious." The woman asked spontaneously.

"I have no idea, I'm curious too." John answered.

"Let's open it!" The woman smiled supportively. 

"Eh..." John gathered the right words together. He didn't want to scare off this pretty lady. "The contents of this parcel might be very personal, and I prefer to open it alone or with an acquaintance."

The woman looked a bit disappointed, but she seemed to understand.  
"All right. Good evening."

"But-" John added quickly. "today is my birthday and I'll meet up with a few friends at the King's Apples tonight. I'd like you to come, if you would like to."

"I'd like very much to." The woman smiled genuinely. She held out her hand for John to shake. He took it.

"Mary Morstan."

"John Watson."

"See you tonight, then." Mary turned around, turned around the corner and was gone.

John closed the door behind him and leaned against it after it clicked closed. He sighed. What did he just do? Did he have a date out of nowhere? This felt not right, he felt guilty. He loved Sherlock and he would love him until he would die. But that bastard killed himself, leaving John alone. John was still unsure about the exact reason why Sherlock had done it. He couldn't believe he had done it out of pride. He knew Sherlock, Sherlock didn't give a damn about the press. So why would he kill himself?

John knew it was no use thinking this over again. Sherlock was dead and he would remain dead. But that nagging hope did nothing to make himself believe it.

When he felt his back was cold as ice, he woke up from his train of thought and realised he still had the parcel in his hand. The parcel! Yes, that should be opened right now.

John went to the kitchen of his apartment to fetch a pair of scissors. He hurried the box open, cutting his thumb with the pair of scissors. He grabbed the thing that was inside.

It was a spray can of yellow graffiti. It was the same brand as the paint Sherlock had used to paint the smiley on the wall of 221B. On the side of the can, a post-it stuck with a note.

 

_Happy birthday, John_

_Don’t forget:_

_Use your eyes_

 

John felt his insides flare up with irrational hope and sentiment. He swallowed, blinked one semi-joyful tear away and whispered: 

"Thank you, Sherlock."

 

Don't stop believing, they say. That is hard, when three years pass and the only hold you have are two birthday presents. He still believed, but doubt crept on him. Three years is a long amount of time.

John had followed the vague instruction 'use your eyes' very well. He had subconsciously trained his eyes to look out for yellow graffiti, but he had found nothing that hinted to Sherlock's survival. He had given up on the yellow paint clue, though he hadn't gone out looking for it. He had learnt it was unwise to dwell on the past.

Time had passed and it still hurt, but John had found comfort and trust in Mary. Since his birthday last year, they had had a few dates, which resulted living together for over 7 months now. John felt guilty, but he knew he couldn't stay locked up in his own sorrow forever. She made him laugh, they had sex and he loved her, but it was nothing compared to what Sherlock had given him. But something is better than nothing. Mary made the suffering less, so John was kind of happy with his current situation. 

John woke up at his hair shifting unnaturally. When he opened his eyes, he saw Mary hovering over him and fondling his hair.

"Happy birthday, John." She said softly.

The memories of three years back flashed for his eyes, the first birthday he had celebrated with Sherlock. They had celebrated it quite... intensively.  
"Thanks, Mary." 

John didn't want to, no, he couldn't celebrate his birthday in the same way with Mary. So he gave her a quick kiss and got up out of bed. He saw Mary was disappointed, but John just couldn't.

In the afternoon they had planned a little party for family and friends to celebrate John's birthday in the quiet +40 way. It was fun and for a moment, John forgot Sherlock and the past. When the visitors all sat on the couch around the coffee table, talking and gossiping, though, John swore he could hear Sherlock's voice in his head. 

Dull.

John laughed in himself. Yes, he really would have said that.

The whole day through, John's ears were pitched to every possible time the doorbell rang. It did ring a lot, sadly only because of the family and friends that were invited. After the visitors were gone, the doorbell didn't ring again.

John helped Mary doing the dishes, while being lost in his mind. Mary tried to steal kisses, to which John minimally responded. Eventually, Mary was fed up with this.

"Ok, you're now telling me what is wrong." Mary pointed frustrated at him with a wooden spoon. "You have been sighing and not responsive to my affection all day and I don’t know why. I can't look inside of your head." 

Sherlock could.

"So tell me, please. What is wrong?" Mary added softly.

John sighed while looking at the ground. He thought he had coped well through this day. It seemed as if he hadn't and it was difficult admitting that.

"It's Sherl- hmmrrm." John said under his breath, gathering his guts.

"I'm sorry? I didn't understand that." Mary asked.

"It's Sherlock, OK!" John shouted frustrated, averting direct eye contact.

Mary was taken aback by this sudden outburst, though she recovered quickly.

"I'm sorry, love. I understand it's difficult, it's OK, it's all fine." Mary's hand soothingly rubbed his wrong shoulder.

"No, it isn't Mary! Can't you see it? I'm trying to let the past be, but I can’t think about anything else than him. I can't help but feeling we do not match like we should." John ran his hands through his hair, pulling it when he stressed the words. Mary didn't react mad, she only rubbed him harder.

"I know that's not true, love." 

"I do! You are rubbing my bad shoulder, for example! And how long have we been together? For over 7 months! A good couple should know such things. And that is fine, I don't know you as good as I should after such a long time."

Mary's hand had retreated from his shoulder. John saw she was hurt, but holding up appearances. He felt guilty, again.

"I want to get to know you better, I really do and I trust and love you. But please understand that it's hard and it is just not what I am used to." John explained.

Mary sighed after a short silence. "I understand. I don't know how it is to have a relationship after the love of your life committed suicide, but I do understand it must be hard. Harder than I can imagine. It's all right, John. Take your time.

John sighed of relief. This was one of the qualities he loved about Mary. He opened his arms as an invitation and not much later, he had locked them around Mary in an embrace.

 _I just want to be with Sherlock_ was the only thought John had. He realised that this thought had been lingering in his subconscious since he and Mary got together and that it was now that it peeked over the surface. Guilt and sadness washed over John. It was wrong to think that. It had no use.

"I think you should get out, take a walk, clear your mind." Mary released John. She didn't cry, luckily. 

"Yeah, I think that is a good idea." John nodded. He really needed a walk, his head felt clouded and painful.

 

After putting his coat on, Mary came up to him and gave him a kiss on his cheek.

"I don't know how long I'll be gone." John admitted.

"That's fine." Mary smiled reassuringly.

"All right. Bye then." 

"Bye, John."

Mary opened the door for him and closed his behind his back. John closed his eyes and sighed deeply while standing on the doorstep. And then what?

When he opened his eyes, his attention was drawn to some graffiti on the wall across the street. It was painted in yellow paint. John's heart jumped. He quickly made it to the other side of the street. 

John's deduction skills worked on full speed. The paint was still wet, it still smelled like paint and he didn't remember seeing this before. Conclusion: The graffiti must be painted this afternoon. The paint formed lines that had obviously no artistic value. John took a few steps back so he could see the whole.

 _What does it say?_ John cracked his head on it, when he suddenly recognised the lines.

It was Chinese. These were Chinese cyphers.

John hurriedly gathered his knowledge of Chinese cyphers from the case of the Blind Banker. When he read the graffiti again, his stomach flipped.

 

_221B_

 

That was all John needed to know. He ran to the edge of the street that crossed a main street, waved for a cabbie and stepped in when one stopped.

 

“221B Baker Street, please.”

 

The cab ride was agony. Who painted it? How had no one seen the person who painted the graffiti? What would he find in 221B?

John chose very wisely to stop this train of thought, because he feared he was getting wrapped up into fantasy too much.

221B Baker Street could not appear too soon. When it finally did, John gave the cabbie a huge tip. He didn’t care; he wanted to get out as quickly as possible.

He got out of the cab, almost tripping over the sidewalk. John looked up. Through the windows of 221B shone no light. It tempered his excitement a bit, but not enough to not run to the door.

When John knocked on the door, the door swung ajar. John screwed his senses at top sensitivity. If the door was open, something, rather something, must have opened the door. Somebody kind, or somebody evil.

Was this some trick? A trap? If so, it worked bloody well.

John tried to be as silent as possible. He didn’t close the door and tip-toed through the hall to the stairs, only his blood thumping in his ears.

Because of his excitement, he forgot to skip the second but last step that made a creaking sound that pierced the silence. John squirmed his face as a reaction to the sound.

When suddenly an other sound came from behind the closed door to the living room.

John’s breath hitched. His heart felt like it was set afire.

It could not be.

But his ears did not deceive him.

The tunes of _Happy Birthday_ were unmistakable. 

John didn’t know how quickly he could get into the living room. He didn’t care about making a sound, he didn’t care about restraining himself, he only cared about getting through that door. He roughly swung it open and there he saw him.

Sherlock. Playing his violin. Just like four years ago. 

But it was not possible. 

“Sherlock?” John croaked, breaking the huge lump in his throat.

Sherlock stopped playing and turned around, saying nothing.

“Sherlock, is that you?” John was vaguely aware of warm wetness leaking from his eyes. He had to be sure.

“Happy birthday, John.” 

John thought he would never hear that purring, low voice of his lover. Let alone see him. 

In two big steps, John was pressed against Sherlock's chest. This was real, he was real. John heard Sherlock’s breath, felt his pulse when he took his hand, tasted his tears on his lips when he kissed him. He was back.


End file.
